Waiting
for Christmas is and has always been the most intense, insane experience of
anticipation of all the year.
Standing
in front of the tree and being mesmerized by the lights is the disco ball of
the season. Shaking the presents and
guessing their contents will always be part of the game. The small train around the base wears itself
out by the Big Day, only too happy to be packed away for next year’s new
batteries and another chance to whistle.
That
was last year, when I turned 60 years old.
My granddaughters have informed me that I have to move away from the
tree. It is their time to do the dancing.
That
leaves me with the other delights: baking obscenely rich pastries, putting
together the Christmas pudding (a little late, I know), and moving furniture
around to accommodate an almost crawling grandson Benjamin(:()
 |
| Benjamin exploring cooked carrot, ignoring the broccoli |
Waiting
for Christmas has become more than all the above for the adult me. Sometime between
the first songs playing in Target Stores to the filling of the stockings on
Christmas Eve, a miraculous event bursts inside me.
It
started as a spark of joy, and then fills me all up. Christmas is here! Christ came into the world as a human, to
experience the human pain and suffering.
Christ was crucified, resurrected, and ascended into heaven. Christ dwells within me daily, reminding me
that I am part of His family.
I am
waiting for Christmas, slightly removed from the tree’s perimeter to allow two
little girls in pajamas to enter into the thrall of the tree.
The
spark is there and starting to burst into the “Hallelujah Chorus”!
Do you get that spark? Are the memories of Christmas both looking
back and being in the present? Are you
still dancing? Do you have to push the
kids and grandkids out of the way?
